Life After Death
by The Aeolian Mode
Summary: After Sherlock fakes his own death, he turns to the one person who has been staunchly loyal no matter how poorly he treated her. With Molly's help, he starts his new life... as painful as it is. Rated M for future gore.


How fleeting life is. How completely transient the sensation of dying is. Though, to be fair, I did not actually die that day. It was only a mere ruse, but to see the aftermath of one's own tragic demise was quite interesting. I normally do not dictate my adventures, Watson is my Boswell, but seeing as the circumstances of this new problem hinge on the fact that everyone, yes, even John, must believe that I am dead, I have taken the liberty to write instead of my friend.

My friend… yes, that is what makes this whole escapade tiresome. To know that you are the cause of so much pain is not only stressing, but humbling. I have observed John a few times since the incident, and even after months of my departure, he still morns.

I am not accustomed to being liked. In fact, the opposite is much more of a regular thing for me. The police hate me for showing them how useless they really are. Criminals hate me for thwarting them. I once told John that I don't have friends, and it's true. I only had one, that which being himself. I never really understood it; I understand hate and its motives, often times jealousy for a woman or greed, even loathing just due to personality… but friendship is a foreign thing to my brain. I don't… _get why he likes me._ In our times together, I insulted him, used him as bait, experimented on him… and yet he follows me faithfully, even in death.

But enough exposition. I know that you are wondering how I am still alive… I would wonder too, if I were in your position. Though, I have given enough clues for John to find out. Surprisingly, or rather not surprisingly, I'm not sure which… John is an average man. Having seen war, death to him is final. He believes his own eyes and what is told to him. John never looks for details. Even after our time together, he never really learned to observe as I do. There is no superhuman quality to it, anyone can perform the feats I do.

I am saving this on Molly's computer for the time being. As I had to have someone with a certified degree examine my body and definitively declare it dead, an insider was needed to assist me. I am aware of her tentative crushing on me, but do not return her feelings. She knows that I know, but has come to terms with it. With that little road block out of the way, she has become my faithful second in the place of John. I… truly feel terrible for what that man must be feeling now, but it had to be done.

I will not disclose how I faked my own death, as that is not the issue at hand now. There is work to do, but I am at a loss to go about it. Since my only contact with the outside world at the moment is Molly, I am having put peroxide in my hair and growing beard to disguise myself. Having fair eyes, lashes, and skin, I think it will look quite natural. As Abraham Lincoln's visage was improved with facial hair, maybe my own high cheekbones will be less of a defining feature. Molly commented that I looked Dutch, and I have altered my voice to contain the lifts of that accent to further root my new identity before I make public appearances.

The reason I write this entry, even though I know it will never be read, (though, I wouldn't be surprised if years later, Molly's curiosity gets the better of her), is because at the moment, I am suffering a boredom and loneliness… yes, loneliness on rival to the emotions I felt back when I was slave to the needle. It is a scary thought to have these sudden… emotions. I am not one for feelings. Logic is much more suited to me. However, this being said, I recalled what John's therapist had suggested with the blog…. So thus, I write to keep my mind occupied. Roughly ninety-and-six hundred words in and I find myself at a loss, the boredom starting to reach its claws around my inactive brain once again.

But I must wait. To go out and search for the rest of Moriarty's underlings now would only drive them further under the veil of secrecy. Besides, to let them believe that I am truly dead will make them careless and brave—prone to making mistakes by which I will track them down with.

I detect the odor of the peroxide. Molly must have found it, finally. I can tell she is nervous and excited—what are the chances of being allowed to play with the hair of the man you like? I realize that I intimidate her, and… I know I could do it myself, but because of her hospitality and want to help me, I feel the need to let her have these precious moments in which I am just another man and she just another woman instead of assistant and hunter.

It is done, twenty minutes later. I hate to admit it, but the touch of a woman who is fond of you is rather special. Although my scalp itches now, it was worth it to give her that happiness. Perhaps because of my death, and because I am oh-so aware of the pain that I have caused others, I allow myself to become sentimental. I can't help the frown forming as I think of it. I am not supposed to let myself fall to this trap of the human heart. It clouds judgment…. As I have felt with the woman. Yes, The Woman.

But this is Molly's computer and I feel like I would be overstepping my welcome if I were to speak of tender feelings.

….in any case, my fingertips are starting to ache, since I have been messing with the peroxide ungloved. Already, white spots are starting to show where the base has burned my skin. However that being said, the colour is coming out quite nice, if I do say so myself. I gave myself a start when I caught my reflection. If is enough to make me pause, I'd imagine that it would be enough to fool the likes of Lestrade. I shall leave it in longer, though, in order to obtain that whiteish-blonde instead of that yellowish, unnatural look. As my brows are fair as well, and my arms almost bare looking due to the light colour of the hair there, I have high hopes of this treatment looking as natural as can possibly be.

I just have asked Molly for her opinion, after I had washed the strong stuff from my head and face with the hose meant for preparing a body for the morgue. Her initial shock was enough to bring a smile to my face. She complimented me, and suggested in a timid voice that I be introduced to John as my new persona for the real test. It has, after all, been roughly half a year. Enough time to emerge from the shadows as a regular person, but not enough to go-a-hunting for Moriarty's men. Molly has called them the "World Crime League" in jest, but the title has stuck in my head since them. I asked her how she planned to go about the matter with John, and she merely blushed and suggested that I be her boyfriend. I agreed; Jim from IT was enough to fool me. It was a natural route to take. We collaborated on my background. I was three-and-twenty years old, (Molly mentioned that I looked younger with the lighter hair), from Germany… and if anyone wanted specifics, I would name a small town that no one has really heard of. I came from said small town to study Chemistry at London University. Molly met me when I was in the library looking up things for my next exam. She was immediately taken by me because my eyes looked just like Sherlock's.

I snickered at that, watching the doctor blush and stammer at that. I was right—she was captivated by them after all.

We hammered out more details and nailed them to another document saved on this computer so she would not forget. Already, it is saved to my mental hard-drive. My brain palace has acquired a few more rooms about this mysterious new Chemist, creating false memories of childhood times and visiting London for the first time when I was barely eighteen… yes. I knew no story that I told would be repeated by me with flaws. Usually when one tells a lie, it changes ever so slightly with each re-telling. This is not the case with I—I was confident in my memory to become this person, not just act as if I were a country-boy university student.

Molly is busy thinking up names for me while I sit at her computer.

I feel the need for a cigarette. As I am assuming a new identify, I figured it would be in my best interests to fully change my habits. No nicotine patches, but instead, shitty, hipster cigs that I picked up the addiction to from my classmates.

With that in mind, I borrowed some pounds from Molly and saved this document somewhere she will never find it, despite it being her own computer.

Off to the convenience store, then.


End file.
